HARLAN

by David Whitman

  "I'm starving," Julian said. "I haven't eaten anything since yesterday. You guys want to go get something?"

  "Okay," I said. "Only we're going to have to go to Farleyville to do it, though. Ross will find us if we go somewhere in this shithole of a town." I looked over at Vlad. "Any objections?"

  Vlad nodded enigmatically. "I already ate." And as Julian and I exchanged nervous glances he spoke again, "But I'll go with you guys. I certainly have nothing else to do, that's for sure."

  As we drove to Farleyville, everyone was quiet. I wondered if going to a town where your mother was your sister was such a good idea, especially with Vlad along. Jesus, I get harassed enough as it is. I've been told that I'm actually very good looking, but not in the conventional sense. I have thick brown hair, long on the top and short on the sides. I have some freckles on my nose, but nothing major, and they never bothered me. My eyebrows arch up mysteriously, offsetting my boy-next-door looks and making one think there might be a little menace in my bark. That last description was Suzanne's not mine. My gaunt body would probably make people think I was deathly ill or something like that.

  Another scary thing about Farleyville is my father lives there. Yes, the dreaded prince of darkness. Heil Hitler! I swear that when he comes into a room you actually get a vague whiff of brimstone—that and the familiar smell of Kool cigarettes, English Leather cologne, and cheap beer. My father has made me what I am, and I often wonder what would have happened to me had I been raised by a good man. I wonder if I would be happy, but I doubt it. The thing I realize the most about life is that you'll never truly be happy. It's like climbing up never-ending steps. Birth. School. Work. Death. It's the way I've heard it characterized, and the description couldn't be more apt. No matter what you have, no matter how good you are—whether you're Donald Trump or Dirty Joe from our very own town of Rawley, you'll never truly be happy. Sure, there will be moments when you say you are happy, but those moments are painfully short. There will always be another girl you desire; another toy to play with; another car. This desperate search for the unattainable is one of the reasons that I have to just get the hell off this planet.

  While we're on such a depressing riff, I may as well tell you about the Screamer. The Screamer is what I feel all the time. I always feel like someone inside of me is screaming as hard as humanly possible—shrieking at the world with a pain that simply just can't be described. Sometimes, I can feel him weeping inside of me. Sometimes, he gets cold and he just shivers inside of me, unable to get warm. Sometimes a teacher will be talking to me at school, lecturing me on some kind of useless bullshit, and I can feel the Screamer trying to get out. It's as if he is threatening to rip himself violently from my body, finally free to be heard.

  Like when Mr. Peterson, my algebra teacher, said to me, "You know Harlan you really should eat. I realize that being thin is the thing, a trend, so to speak. But you shouldn't follow trends, Harlan, you should set them. You're a bright boy, young man. You have a great future ahead of you. An amazingly bright future. You're such a handsome young man and you don't even go out with the girls. You should get yourself a nice cheerleader."

  As I looked at Mr. Peterson, his fat sweaty lips almost dripping as he spoke, I could feel the Screamer clawing to get out.

  Tick Tick Tick.

  Just explode out of me and pounce on him, ripping him into bloody pieces.

  Tick Tick Tick.

  I felt like I was going to detonate.

  I felt like a bomb.

  And then I said it, the thing that got me a week's detention, "Mr. Peterson?"

  Mr. Peterson smiled, his smug face thinking that he finally got through to this bright young man. "Yes, Harlan?"

  "FUCKING BOOM!" I shrieked.

  As I let go, the whole school seemed to come to a standstill. It was as if I had the power to stop time. Everyone froze and just looked at me. Then my voice fell to a whisper. "Fucking boom, Mr. Peterson. Fucking Boom."

  Peterson's face turned white. He said nothing, leaving me to think that maybe I'd finally lost it, that maybe the Screamer was finally just going to come out and stay. The following week in detention was pure hell. Frail me and all the scary jocks in one room. I felt like I was going to be raped—but I lived.

  The Fucking Boom Incident, as it came to be known, was how I got to be friends with Julian. He saw the whole thing and he just identified with it. "Harlan, at that moment I thought you were so cool I just wanted to be you. It was the most spontaneous thing that I ever saw. I almost shouted out a 'fucking boom' or two myself, then things really would have went to hell."

  The next week, he got me a black t-shirt with the saying written on the back. I'm wearing it right now, although you can't see it with the cardigan and the jacket over it.

  "Well, we're here," Julian said, dragging me up from my thoughts. "As they say here in this town. It's time to get this here boy something to fucking eat. You ever notice that about this town, Harlan? The word fuck has to be used in every sentence. I think you can go to jail if you don't use it. You probably go to the local priest and say, 'Forgive father, for I have fucking sinned.' Or when you go to get a haircut, 'Just take a little off the fucking sides, will ya?'" By this time, even Vlad was laughing. Julian loved an audience so he just kept going. "Or when you propose to a woman and you say, 'Darling, will you fucking marry me?"

  "What do they say about the actual act?" I asked, joining in. "You know, like intercourse? Do you say it then?"

  "Of course you do," Julian said, pulling into to the crowded parking lot. "That's a Farleyvillian's favorite time to say it."

  The restaurant was called Danko's and it looked exactly like the kind of place that we would never leave alive. Neon lights were flashing the town's favorite beer at us, the light reflecting off the windshield of the Mustang. The place was relatively crowded. After all, it was a bar and it was Friday night.

  "Julian," I said, eyeing up the place nervously as I stepped out of the car and pulled the seat back for Vlad. "Maybe we should go to a McDonalds or something. We're practically begging for trouble going here."

  "Have you ever been here?" Julian asked, tucking his long blonde hair behind his ears.

  "No," I said. "But it just looks like the kind of place where they kill guys like us just for sport."

  "I've been here," Vlad said, and we both looked at him. When he saw that we were waiting for him to say more, he continued, "We won't get any trouble here. I know that I know for a fact."

  Julian looked at me, winking reassuringly as I sighed. The last time we had come to Farleyville the local football team almost caught us. Yes, the entire team. Julian opened up his mouth and we barely got away. We were driving Fat Ethel that night and it was only by pure luck that we managed to escape alive.

  I pulled my glasses out from my jacket and put them on. They were the thick black kind, much like the pair David Byrne wears in the Talking Heads videos. They make most people look like geeks, but I like the way they look on me. My eyes aren't that bad, I mean I'm not blind or anything, but I weakened the shit out of them with constant reading.

  As we stepped through the door, the normal bar smells began their assault on my nostrils: Fried food, alcohol and nicotine, an aphrodisiac for any teenage boy.

  As my eyes adjusted to the light, I noticed that nearly every face was friendly. And every face was a man. Some of them were sitting rather close. I looked over at Vlad and saw his dark smile.

  "I told you we'd be safe," he said, walking over to the nearest empty booth and sitting down.

  Vlad sat on one side while Julian and I sat on the other. Julian was eyeing up the place nervously. I knew that he was just about to figure it out himself. He looked over at the bar where two guys were touching each other's hands in a very feminine manner. Then, as I watched, his face drained of color.

  "Harlan," he hissed, grabbing my arm. "This is a gay bar."

  "I take it you guys aren't gay?" Vlad asked mischievously, grabbing a menu and lookin
g it over.

  "Uh, no!" Julian spat out and I noticed humorously that he was already scooting away from me.

  I think I moved over a little too, although I'm not proud of it. I personally never had a problem with gay people. One of Suzanne's best friends was gay and I had gotten to know him pretty good the last couple of years. He was pretty cool. You would never even know he was gay unless he told you.

  The waiter sauntered up to our table, a friendly smile under his thick mustache. "What can I get you guys?"

  I ordered a salad and Julian and Vlad both ordered sandwiches. Yes, I'm one of those annoying vegetarians. Not because I have any great passion for animals or anything, hell, I wear leather. It's just that I can't stomach the taste of meat in my mouth. It makes me feel unclean.

  "You're gay?" Julian blurted at Vlad after the sodas arrived.

  "Kind of," Vlad said, sipping his Coke through a straw.

  "What do you mean 'kind of'? Either you're gay or not, which is it?"

  "I'm both," Vlad said, staring at Julian intently as if daring him to challenge.

  Julian sighed and looked at me as if I could help.

  "He's both," I said lamely.

  Then something surprising happened. We all started laughing. Julian was usually pretty homophobic, but he actually seemed to be accepting for a change. Julian can be a little moody sometimes. I've seen him change his mind at a finger snap before, and this was just one of those times. We both took to Vlad instantly. Like us, he refused to be swallowed up by a system that wanted everyone to be alike. He had a personality and he was unique. Vlad was Vlad, and that was it.

  "Oh, this is just too fucking rich."

  The voice came just over my shoulder and I could tell by the look in Vlad's eyes that we were gonna die.

  An angry Ross Morrissey stood next to the table—his two iron pumping buddies Bart and Biff right behind him. That's not really their names, but hey, they aren't worth a mention in my journal. Ross's red painted face gave him a positively demonic appearance.

  "Are you guys so screwed that it's almost pretty funny when you think about it?" Ross asked, grinning. "It figures that I'd find you fairies in a faggot bar of all places."

  Julian and I did the totally normal thing: We froze like fucking rabbits in a headlight. Vlad stiffened fearfully, but held his ground surprisingly well. Vlad was beginning to be my new hero, and God knows I need one.

  "Look who it is," Ross continued. "My brother and Harlan fucking Sexton." Then his eyes widened comically when he saw Vlad. "And it's that faggot vampire, too! Oh my God, this is going to be so fun I'm almost cumming in my pants!"

  He and his friends began to drag us from our seats.

  Two rather tough looking guys in black leather came to our table, the very same ones who had been caressing each other when we walked in. "Okay, you guys are going to have to leave." One of them said, stepping in between Ross and our table.

  Ross grabbed him by the lapels of his leather jacket. "Listen, Mr. Faggot. We don't want any trouble from you. My brother here stole my car and his little makeup-wearing friend there attacked me. So, if you'll just leave us be we'll be on our way, okay, Mr. Faggot?"

  Blood splattered my glasses, shooting from Ross's nose after the leather-clad man pumped his fist into Ross's face. It was instantaneous, almost like lightning. He hit Ross and Ross fell to the floor. That was it.

  Mr. Faggot apparently knew how to throw a punch.

  Bart and Biff immediately turned and headed for the door, their confidence deserting them about the same time Ross hit the floor.

  Julian leaned over me and looked down to where his brother laid face first on the wooden floor. "Oh, yeaaahhh!" he said, a big, wide, shit-eating grin on his face. "I know I'm dead tomorrow, but this is definitely worth the beating. Who's your daddy, Ross?"

  "I think you guys better leave too," suggested the man who had decked Ross.

  "You know something," I said. "We were going to do just that."

  When we got outside there was no sign of Bart and Biff. Poor Ross, I thought to myself. The world's biggest homophobe is lying face down on the floor of a gay bar. Its things like that that make me think that maybe the world isn't so bad after all. If Ross lying on that floor wasn't the very definition of poetic justice, I don't know what is.

  We left Danko's as quickly as possible and headed back towards Rawley. We were all too scared to talk for the moment. Julian and I were especially dead, although I believe Julian was in quite a bit more trouble, considering that he had to live with the asshole and all.

  "Harlan," Julian said after awhile. "I think I'm going to have to stay at your house this week, okay?"

  I nodded. "No problem. How much you want to bet my Mom doesn't even notice?"

  Julian smiled weakly. "It was worth it, though. My brother is never going to live this down. You guys want to go to Lake Angel?"

  Vlad and I had no argument with that. Lake Angel was a perfect place to chill out. It would be quiet, and that was exactly how I felt at the moment. You have to believe me, Dear Reader; my life usually isn't this exciting.

  Lake Angel used to be my favorite place to hang out until the murder. Jessica Robins, a senior at our high school, was found dead there last month. Her body was mutilated and raped. With one slice of a sharp knife, some psychopath had forever made Lake Angel into a sinister place. It's funny, though, Lake Angel used to live up to its name, and now, even with Jessica's murder, it still did. You simply thought of Jessica as the angel now, whereas before the angel was just this stereotypical waif.

  In fifteen minutes, we found ourselves lying on the still warm hood of Ross's Mustang, staring out at the glittering sky and crescent moon. The crickets chirped, accompanying the car stereo that we had playing at a low volume—the Cocteau Twins. As I watched the black surface of the lake, I kept seeing Jessica's eyes staring out into nothingness. All I could think of was how scared she must have been. She must have screamed, but no one was there to offer any help. I wondered if she knew she was going to die. Thinking about it made me angry. They never caught the killer. For all we knew he could be here right now. Tomorrow we could be on the seven o'clock news as the latest victims.

  "You think they'll ever catch the guy?" I asked without bothering to explain what I was talking about. I knew that the same thing was on both Vlad and Julian's mind.

  "I knew Jessica," Vlad said, his eyes turning towards me. "She was a prom queen type, but she was cool. She once saved me from getting my ass kicked for the umpteenth time. When she got everybody away from me, she asked me if I was all right, and if I needed a ride home. That had to be seen as uncool by her friends, yet she tried to help me. If there was one girl that didn't deserve it, it's her." He looked out towards the lake, his eyes registering the fact that he really seemed to care. "Hell, man, I don't give a shit for nobody. It's me against the whole damn world. The one girl that tries to show me some kindness and some crazy shithead has to cut her up."

  "I admired her too," Julian said. "My brother asked her out and she shot him right the hell down so fast that smoke was coming out of his ass. Yep, admiration. Seems like every girl in school is blind to the fact that my brother is a soon to be convict. Why the hell is that, Harlan? What the hell is it that girls see in dudes like my psycho brother? What in the hell do they have that we don't have?"

  I sighed. "Sucks, doesn't it? We're the ones that would respect them. We're the ones that actually want more from them then just getting our dicks wet—yet they don't seem to give a shit. Some muscular bastard can throw a football real hard and far and all of a sudden everybody's all impressed and shit. All those dudes care about is getting laid. We want more. We actually want to get to know them as a person. It's all so damn shallow."

  Julian smirked. "I care about getting laid, too. I would even go so far as to say it's a priority—but it's not all there is."

  Vlad sat up on the hood. "Harlan, you must be the one that's blind, man. The chicks love you. I hear them talk
ing. I've seen them fall apart after you walk by, man. You got something they like."

  "You're out of your mind, Vlad," I said promptly. "They hate me."

  "No, Harlan, Vlad's right," Julian said, propping himself up on one elbow. "The girls do like you, but you get so damn strange. I mean that whole 'fucking boom' incident didn't exactly make you a ladies magnet, you know. I do remember that before we started to hang out the girls would talk about you like you were James freaking Dean. There is a certain element that likes you, those that like crazy fuckers." He suddenly looked over at Vlad. "What's it like to sleep with a guy? I don't get it."

  "Julian!" I shouted. "Don't go there, we hardly know him! Jesus!"

  "Hey," Vlad said. "I don't care. You guys seem cool to me. I haven't slept with a guy, or a girl. I just know that I'm attracted to both. I kissed a guy once, though."

  Julian groaned and made a pained face. "Eeeew!" but he still looked curious. "Who?"

  "Jim Taglin," Vlad said. "When we were in the eighth grade we tongue kissed in his Mom's basement."

  "Jim Taglin!" Julian and I shouted in unison.

  "The basketball player!" Julian shouted. "One of my brother's friends! I can't believe Jim Taglin is a faggot!" He flinched when he realized he had just insulted Vlad. "Um, sorry Vlad, I'm not used to this gay thing."

  "I don't take offense," Vlad said, smiling. "Names don't bother me. I don't think Jim's gay, though. I think that was just a little experiment on Taglin's part. He dates girls now. I read that most males have done it one time or the other. It's like masturbation."

  "Well I never did," Julian said immediately. "I don't know what the hell you're reading. How in the hell can anybody get aroused by a hairy, smelly man? Shoot me, but I just don't get it. And French kissing another man is not just an experiment. If you want to stick your tongue in another man's mouth, chances are you probably like dick too."

  "I never did, either," I said, and it was the truth. I shot Julian an angry look about the dick comment. "But masturbation, that's a whole different story."